


and I keep seeing you walk through that door

by mazily



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: It's her therapist's idea.





	and I keep seeing you walk through that door

**Author's Note:**

> Set a nebulous amount of time after The Right Sort of Animal.

It's her therapist's idea. (It took an intervention of epic proportions to get her to go to even one session--she wasn't depressed, just lonely, and she'd learned all the coping mechanisms to deal with her grief she could learn already--but she'd lucked out with Jim, and now she's going every week. Has been for months. Jason's finally starting to lose that wary look in his eyes whenever he sees her. She's finally starting to think about dating, about seeing if she can put her personal life back together. Starting to think it might be remotely possible.)

She's been slowing making amends with Fleur ("remember, all you can do is apologize, offer to work to rebuild any lost trust; she's under no obligation to forgive, let alone continue your friendship"; it's been hard, with Fleur and Sian and all the friendships she let go, whether in her grief or while she was clinging so tightly to her relationship with Bernie, so sure that if she tried harder or did more that it would be all she'd need, that she couldn't see her way to any other relationships--until suddenly she was aching with loneliness and Leah, well--the less said about that, the better). She isn't sure they're back to a place where it would be appropriate to ask; wonders if they were ever the sort of friends who shared that sort of thing. Feels heat and shame when she realizes--didn't she largely go on about Bernie no matter what the conversation, didn't Fleur flirt and try to change the subject and listen far more kindly than Serena ever deserved? 

"This is awkward," she says, "But where would one go--outside the hospital; I've vowed no more workplace romances--were one interested in meeting women?"

Fleur cackles, no other word for it. "Oh," she says, "This is going to be fun."

*

Fleur knows people. She has friends--a circle of them, married and single and statuses in between; "we're barely incestuous at all, really, comparatively speaking"--and she introduces Serena around. They go out drinking, or for dinner, or to the cinema. Serena is roundly mocked for her lack of sapphic pop culture knowledge, told she needs to watch something other than _Orange is the New Black_.

"When would I even have time to watch all of," she says, pointing at the list currently taking up way too much screen space on her mobile, "That? I barely have time to sleep, lately, let alone watch some prestige soap opera, whatever that is."

"You can stop once the wedding happens partway through the third series," Em says. "Just consider that the end of the show."

"Watch while you knit," Fleur pipes in. She wiggles her fingers suggestively.

"Oi," Donna says (and Serena'd honestly no idea she wasn't completely heterosexual until she turned up at one of Fleur's get togethers; still isn't sure how to compartmentalize the fact that they'd snogged for hours one night, soft and lazy with drink, and left the night the sort of friends who talk about their lives), "Ignore them, god knows I do. If anything, you should watch the kisses--someone's probably got them up on YouTube--but that's the only bit worth wasting time on."

Serena still feels overwhelmed with this entire community she's suddenly a part of, this entire part of herself she'd never imagined existed until Berenice Wolfe walked up to her in a car park. ("Liar," Fleur said, one night deep into their cups, "Never admitted maybe, but--"

Serena couldn't quite hold back the tears; she tried to smile, to laugh, but her face crumpled against her will. "Fuck," she said, wiping at her eyes, "I thought I was past this part."

Fleur leaned into her, head against Serena's shoulder, hand rubbing her opposite arm. "Oh, darling," she said. And nothing more.)

Fleur dates Em, and then Em dates Alice; Serena doesn't date anyone. (She sleeps with Alice, after running into Edward and Liberty while dropping coffee and a pastry for Fleur; mentions it to her therapist later, freezes up when pressed for her motivations, asked what made her jump into bed with the first person to show her any interest after learning her ex-husband is replacing her dead--)

*

She emails Bernie after a few too many glasses of Shiraz, can't stop herself from hitting send on a short message about Cam, a photo of him dressed up as a bunny for a young patient on AAU attached (it was difficult, when he returned; he's so like his mother sometimes). She wakes up with a dry mouth and pounding head and less regret than she would've predicted had she been thinking at all the previous evening. Either Bernie will respond, or she won't. Serena thinks she'll be okay either way; notices that desperate and clawing feeling that used to correspond with every message she sent to Bernie only by its absence. By the lightness in her chest.

(She cries in the shower. She still loves Bernie--knows that's a part of her as surely as her blood, her bones--so why isn't the idea that Bernie won't want to exchange emails with her not stabbing her in the chest?)

Bernie responds. She's doing well. Is glad Cam's doing well.

Serena's glad she's glad, and Bernie's glad Serena's glad she's glad, and on and on until they've an email chain pages and weeks long. They talk about patients (confidentially) and surgeries and Serena's upcoming talk on _The NHS and Brexit: Yes it is that Bad_. About Cam and Jason and Charlotte, and Serena knows if she doesn't supplement at least every other email with a picture of Gwen that there will be hell to pay. ("She's seeing someone," Cam says, one night out at Albie's. Serena doesn't know-- _ah, there's the gaping chest wound back again._ "Met her with Médecins Sans Frontières, did you know she's working with them now?" He continues on about Bernie's latest assignment, the latest combat zone she's stumbled into; Serena nods and hopes he doesn't realize how quickly her mind is spinning away from the topic of conversation.

She orders a bottle. Is happy for Bernie, is happy for Bernie, is happy for Bernie.)

She's happy for Bernie. Goes out on a few dates, sleeps with a few people (women and men alike; she's still not sure about labels, sees the way some people react when she says she's bisexual, but she's decided it's the closest she'll get to an accurate description). Sleeps with one particular woman again, and again, and after the fifth or sixth time realizes they might need to discuss whether or not they're actually dating. Thinks she rather wants them to be, hopes she's not alone in this desire. (Sue is shorter than Serena, a barrister, fond of menswear; she's funny and kind and prone to leaving her glasses everywhere but where she needs them. Serena enjoys their time together enough to ask, late one night in the cocoon of her bed, just what they're doing. Is content, if confused, by Sue's "enjoying each other's company."

Sue brings up her polyamory only in the light of morning. Over tea and eggs rather than under Serena's expensive-but-entirely-worth-it sheets, and Serena finds herself intrigued and asking questions rather than kicking Sue out the door. Leaning closer, and listening.)

"I forget sometimes that you weren't around when Em and I," Sue says, waving her toast in lieu of finishing the statement they both know the end of. "It's such common knowledge I didn't even think you weren't aware."

"And how does that even," Serena starts. And, "Sorry, is this rude? I'm afraid I'm a bit out of my depth."

"How does it work?" Sue answers. "And considering the fact that we're discussing the possibility of a relationship--or at least I think that's what we're discussing; you were a bit vague on the details, so please correct me if I misunderstood."

"No," Serena says. "You didn't. That's what I meant."

"Then asking how that relationship would work isn't remotely rude," Sue says.

*

Bernie emails: "Cam says he told you I'm seeing someone. Wasn't sure how to tell you, whether you want me to tell you that sort of thing, not sure how any of this works."

"However we want it to, you nit," Serena says. She knows she's flustered when she starts talking to her laptop.

She writes, instead, that she's glad Cam told her, would be even happier were Bernie to feel comfortable telling her about her life, that she doesn't know details but hopes Bernie is happy. That's all she's ever wanted for Bernie. All she'll ever want for Bernie.

Stares at the email in her drafts for a day, and another after that. Only hits send after she adds a postscript: "Dating a barrister. I think. Early days. Only fair we both share. Let me know if you'd rather not." She doesn't hear back from Bernie. Isn't sure whether it was her disclosure, the previously taboo subject matter, or just Bernie's complete lack of time permanence when it comes to communicating ("I hadn't realized it was that long," she'll say, if Serena hears from her again; that or no mention of the lapse at all).

Because she's nothing if not an eternal swot, Serena reads up on polyamory and ethical non-monogamy and all sorts of things she'd never really thought of as having to do with her. (She'd always rather seen it in black and white: you're cheated on, you cheat, or you don't.)

"That book's bollocks," Fleur tells her. She dumps the book Serena'd just opened in the bin, tells her she knows a better one. Has a copy at home even; she'll lend it to Serena, "Just let me put a note in my phone."

"Are you--"

"No," Fleur says, "But an ex-girlfriend was polyamorous, and I too am a nerd who felt the need to read up on everything published on the subject before we broke up--for entirely unrelated reasons. It hasn't come up again, but at least now I'm well-informed."

Her therapist isn't sure whether she's actually okay with the lack of monogamy or if she's displacing her own feelings again. She isn't sure she can explain; is pants at therapy, it turns out, finds it hard and overwhelming and impossible.

"A common reaction," he says, and, "I'm on holiday next week, so same time a week from then."

Serena breaks up with Sue when she realizes, after a stretch of nights spent tossing and turning, that she doesn't know how to answer Jim's stupid bloody question. That she never even thought to ask it of herself at all. And then she sees Sue kissing someone she doesn't recognize one night, smiles and thinks how gorgeous they look and realizes: it doesn't hurt, and not because she's no expectation of monogamy from Sue, but because-- _oh bloody hell_ \--she'd been treating Sue as a tertiary relationship all along. Trying to figure out how to be content in one relationship while still in love with Bernie--because she is, isn't she? Isn't sure how not to be--and this seemed like a solution in which no one would get hurt (and that's ignoring the small part of her that clearly hoped it would bring her and Bernie back together, while allowing Bernie to live her best life elsewhere).

(Another discussion to have with Jim: discussions, plural, probably involving homework.)

"I do realize," she says, when Fleur takes her out for post-breakup drinks, "That continuing to regard Bernie as the great love of my life doesn't speak well to any future prospects. And in my defense, I didn't go into my relationship with Sue consciously aware of any of that."

"Do your heart and brain ever talk?"

Serena thinks Fleur means to be funny, a quip, something to snap Serena out of her doldrums. "I'm afraid they don't even speak the same language," she says.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Fleur says, "But if I didn't know you were already in therapy, I'd be dragging you there right this instant. Since I do know, here, more wine." She passes Serena a fresh bottle.

She stops dating for a while after that, realizes that she's not ready (not where it matters); she focuses on therapy, on her growing circle of friends, and if her own fingers and toys aren't enough from time to time, well, she's been attending more conferences, building up her professional contacts again. It's easy enough to bring another surgeon back to her room, to sleep with another administrator far from home, with no expectations beyond touch and skin (maybe tea in the morning, if they're lucky).

*

"Sorry," Bernie says, when Serena answers her call a few months later. "For--it was rubbish, not answering your last email. And then that snowballed and I didn't know what to do and, well," she laughs, not happily (Serena pictures her curling some hair behind her ear, all nervous energy and bravery, tries not to focus on her imagined vision of Bernie's fingers), "Cam told me I ought to apologize. Try at least."

"I," Serena starts. Her reflex is to say _you're forgiven, it's fine, I understand._ Instead she says, "I'm not sure I can do this if you're going to be non-responsive three weeks of every month. You don't have to say anything profound, but I think I deserve at least a quickly jotted _I'm okay_. Even, _I can't talk about this_ \--in fact, please tell me if I step out of bounds--"

"--only if you do the same--"

"--and that will be that," Serena finishes. "End of conversation. New topic entirely."

"Deal," Bernie says.

"Then all is forgiven," Serena says.

The phone call doesn't last long after that--Serena's called in for a particularly tricky surgery before the pauses between their sentences grow insurmountably long--but Serena feels buoyed when she ends the call. Feels like maybe this is the beginning of something worthwhile. Something good.

They go back to exchanging short emails, in long chains, the pressure of each message meaning everything to both of them finally gone. Text messages about something funny a nurse said; photos of Guinevere and an elephant and a Christmas tree. Bernie's the first person Serena tells when the Deputy CEO position inevitably cycles back in her direction; the first person she confides in when she realizes just how very much she wants that now.

("I think," Serena writes, when Bernie congratulates her--when Bernie doesn't ask, _are you sure?_ \--"I was worried you'd be disappointed in me, somehow, that you'd judge me for wanting to go back to that work, after all. Funny, isn't it?")

She looks forward to their phone calls. Looks forward to an unread email in her personal account, a new text; no longer feels like her insides are ready to crawl out through her throat at every infrequent notification (nervous, shaky, _what if this is how she ends it_ ). She finds out Bernie's dating a woman named Nathalie, that it's pretty serious. Offers that she's gone on a couple of dates with Josie--"oh, I feel ridiculous talking to you about this, but I think I really like her."

Josie kisses with her whole body. She makes Serena laugh when she gets bogged down in her own head, teases her out of her bad moods. Points out a missing comma in a paper Serena's working on ("I tried reading it, but I had to pull out more than one dictionary to understand the first paragraph. That definitely needs a comma, though."), shows Serena her stack of grading when Serena tries to garner sympathy for her backlog of paperwork, orders curries and sits at the opposite end of the dining room table while they eat and work. Serena falls in love with her like slipping on a patch of ice--unexpected, painful, and not a small bit embarrassing (Sacha winks at her the first time she walks with Josie to Saturday morning services, kisses her before parting ways)--and is as careful in it as she would be walking after taking a spill.

("We met through Sacha," Serena says. "She's a member of his synagogue. Teaches history."

"Nathalie's a nurse," Bernie says. "And before you say a word--don't."

"You can't see me," Serena promises, miming pulling a zipper across her lips, "But I'm zipping my lips as we speak.")

She feels like she has her friend back. Like their continued friendship is, maybe, a happy ending of its own (or so she tells Fleur, Donna, Fletch, after a few too many drinks, soppy with love and camaraderie; she even believes it herself most of the time, when she's not feeling overwhelmed or overwrought). She finds herself telling Bernie the sort of everyday things--triumphs and worries, the coffee she'd spilled down her front, her latest appointment with her GP --she'd find herself holding back while they were still together, worried about proving herself too much even at a distance.

"She was my best friend before anything else," Serena explains in her next therapy session. Her hand moves of its own accord to her pendant, twists, touches the skin nearest it. Once grounded, she continues. "My only friend, for a bit--which I now realize was completely unhealthy, thank you, no lecture needed--and I missed that, not, not more than anything else, but in addition to it. I like having at least that part of her back."

*

Cam pulls her aside one morning, his face so serious and grim that Serena feels ill on his behalf. Starts to fill ill on her own behalf when he goes grey, starts to fidget. "Is," Serena asks, to put them both out of their misery, and because she might as well rip this particular bandage off, "Is your mother--is Bernie okay?"

At the precise moment Cam says, "Mum's coming to my wedding."

Which is how Serena finds out he and Morven are getting married--"Okay, let's--congratulations, first of all, I want all the details over drinks"--and how she finds out that she's going to see Bernie again. How she finds out she's not sure she's ready for that, for all she knew it was inevitably going to happy one day (how she's managed to avoid being in Holby when Bernie flies through to visit Cam thus far, well, it's less a mystery than a testament to Cam's kindness and planning).

"Is she," she starts, and stops. Realizes she doesn't really want to know whether or not Bernie's bringing Nathalie (later, she'll want to know, won't want to be blindsided, won't want Josie to be caught out; but this isn't the time, not in the middle of her shift and patients threatening to overflow her ward). "No," she says, "None of my business." She hugs Cam, so very happy for him, and thanks him for the advance warning. Tells him get to work, that his boss is a bit of a harpy about tardiness.

She gets invited on a speaking tour of the US, grabs it with both hands this time (her concerns about the American government do give her pause, but she can't let the opportunity pass her by). Starts planning her coverage at the hospital, tells Josie ("It's only six months," Serena says, watches as "a year at the outside" lands flat, flatter, as Josie says, "I thought, well, the dinner, the candles--I thought maybe we were going to discuss finally moving in together. I guess not."), breaks up with Josie, cries a bit, dries her tears ("steady on, Campbell," to her red-nosed reflection in the mirror). Dithers about whether to hire someone to look in on her house now she won't be asking Josie to move in with her (the candles were in fact a romantic overture) (Jason sighs, says he and Greta can just stay there while she's away, that they've been looking to move anyway).

She starts to worry she won't be able to make it to the wedding.

"I want to go," she tells Fleur, over drinks at hers. A banner reading _Bon Voyage_ in green glitter stretches across the wall; a bottle of Serena's favorite vintage long since empty on the counter. "And I don't want anyone to think I'm not going because I'm ashamed of being single again, because of Bernie."

"Anyone?" Fleur asks. Em snickers from behind her glass, nudges Alice.

"Fine," Serena says. She grabs a new bottle, the corkscrew. Goes to work removing the cork. "I don't want Bernie to think I'm avoiding her and her current partner. There. I hate you all."

In the end, she manages to schedule her flight to Los Angeles for two days after the wedding; it cuts things fine when she lands, but a buffer for what she imagines will be a spectacular hangover seems more necessary than time to get oriented once she arrives. She packs up her life, ships her bags ahead of her.

("I realized I want to prove I'm that person, a good person, who is magnanimous and oh so gracious about her ex-partner moving on and finding love," Serena says, "I want. I want her to look at me and say, _see_ , and I don't know." _To see me and think I'm worth loving, even now, despite it all._

"Don't you?" Jim asks. Serena glares at him.)

She feels like she can finally breathe when Cam mentions, offhand in a way that's decidedly not, that Bernie's coming to the wedding alone. "She was seeing someone, I think," he says, and Serena feels a stupid pang of fondness that he doesn't want to betray his mother's secrets.

"Nathalie, she told me," she says. "They were moving in together last I heard, but I'll confess I've not been the best correspondent lately." He opens his mouth--to joke, she thinks--and she interrupts him. "Yes, yes, I know. She's already teased me about it."

"Anyway," Cam continues, "Mum's started making noises about coming back to the UK, something about grandbabies--it's really the national overhaul of trauma services, though, she read a paper about it that's inspired her and put her name in immediately--and things are currently strained. I think that's code for, 'we're not breaking up, but Nathalie's exchanging her tickets for a minibreak in Mallorca instead.'"

Serena read that paper. Thought of Bernie the whole time she was reading it, the way Bernie scribbles notes in the margins when she's excited (the way they'd talked about Nairobi, back when that was a dream shared between them); she thinks she even mentioned it in an email. She doesn't remember whether Bernie commented on it--their conversations wander, meander, circle past danger signs and double back on themselves.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says. Cam gives her a dubious look, but she means it. Bernie deserves to love, to be loved, to have someone there to warm her ridiculously cold toes and kiss every mole that dots her body.

Fleur insists that she buy a new dress ("You're hopeless--here, try something that shows off your assets"), new shoes, a new bra and knickers. Serena reminds herself to thank her when she lays eyes on Bernie--beautiful, gorgeous, amazing, pick your adjective; Serena's never lacked for superlatives to describe Bernie's looks, has never stopped finding Bernie her own personal platonic ideal of beauty. She's let a little silver twine through her blonde (like tinsel, Serena thinks, a little ridiculously, and she curls her fingers against her wanting), still stands tall and slim and far too attractive in a well-cut suit.

Later, she's never quite sure how it happened (blames Cam, blames Morven, blames everyone but herself, which is how she knows she's probably the one who asked, drunk on love and a glace of something bubbly), but she and Bernie end up dancing together. One song and then two, three, tipping closer and closer until Serena's pressing Bernie against the wall of the lift ferrying them to Bernie's suite.

Kissing Bernie as she fumbles with the key card. She loosens Bernie's tie. Says, "I like this."

Her fingers fumble with her buttons as Bernie kisses her neck, behind her ear, _you smell like you you smell so,_ teeth against her earlobe. She pushes Bernie's blouse and jacket off her shoulders, trapping her hands with her still fastened cuff links. Steps back. Enjoys the opportunity to look at Bernie--stood there in her bra and perfectly fitted trousers, hair an eternal mess and lipstick smudged. "God, you're gorgeous."

The way Bernie tilts her head down at a compliment. The flush of her cheeks. The small, blink and you'll miss it, grin.

"Right," Serena says, "To bed before both our knees give out." Strips as she walks--steps out of her dress, lets her hips sway at Bernie's audible inhalation--and counts all the way to three before Bernie overtakes her, arms freed, pushing Serena onto the unmade bed.

Serena kisses through Bernie's attempted apologies, explanations, kisses Bernie until Bernie is all sound, breath, hands and mouth and body. If they talk, Serena can't help but think, everything will fall apart. She moves Bernie where she wants her. Lets Bernie move her in return. Turns her head away, embarrassed but relieved, when Bernie reaches into her nightstand drawer. Pulls out a bottle of lube. They hadn't always needed that the last time they did this.

When Bernie's teasing becomes too much, when normally she'd shout, cajole, beg, she reaches down. Pushes Bernie's fingers where she wants them. Keeps her own there too, finger crossing finger pressing up and in and she wants to stay here--floating just on the cusp, Bernie everywhere and everything around her--for the rest of her life.

She holds herself there for as long as she can. Eyes open, looking at Bernie above her, making desperate note of every spot she wants to taste. And then Bernie's thumb hits her clit just so, just the way she likes, and it's familiar and overwhelming and her eyes slam shut as she comes.

It takes her a minute to catch her breath again. To blink her eyes open, to study the shape of Bernie's smile. She reaches up, traces a finger along the closest wisps of silver in Bernie's hair. Twists them around her finger, pulls Bernie back down. Kisses her, and kisses her again, and pulls Bernie's hair the way she liked--still likes, by the sound of her gasp, by the way she lets Serena push her down on her back to have her way with her.

She kisses her way down Bernie's body. Stopping at all her favorite spots, to lick and learn new creases and scars. Coax hisses and moans, to drive Bernie's muscles to shake, eager and there for the taking. She licks up the inside of one thigh, breathes over Bernie's knickers (utilitarian, black, _damp and musky, perfection_ )--holds down her hips when they cant up, traces the line of her pants with her fingernail. Bernie breathes out through her nose--a steady, disciplined exhalation--and holds herself still.

Serena pushes Bernie's knickers down, leaving them near Bernie's knees. Inhales--she smells like _Bernie_ , of course she smells like--and licks directly into her. Pulls back, grins unabashedly at Bernie's stunned expression, decides to enjoy herself. Immensely.

And does. Just her mouth, at first, savoring the taste, the feel, the twitch of Bernie's thigh when Serena rests her hand there. Rubs Bernie's skin, her still-defined muscle. The fine hairs she never bothers to shave. Her skin is damp. Her hips thrust up, following Serena's mouth when she pulls back for a minute (to look, to savor, to breathe). She kisses the inside of Bernie's thigh. Traces the line of Bernie's cunt with her finger--"is this okay? Do you need--," and Bernie reaches out, brushes the bottle of lube in Serena's direction, her "if you'd rather use your fingers" far too coherent a response for Serena's liking.

She settles back between Bernie's legs. Blows, just to watch Bernie squirm. Rubs the lube on her hand, presses two fingers into her, twists. Uses tongue and teeth and lips, all the tricks she learned with Bernie, the new ones she perfected only later, and proceeds to drive Bernie mad.

"It's nothing personal," Serena says later as they exchange lazy kisses, hands wandering and relaxed, "But would you mind terribly if I take a quick shower?" She needs to wash the lube from her inner thighs, knows it will start to bother her if she doesn't.

Bernie kisses her again, rolls them so Serena's on her back, Bernie kneeling over her. "Go," she says, play-tussling as Serena shifts to get up. She slaps Serena on the arse, smirks when Serena turns to glare. "I'll probably do the same later, can't bring myself to move now for some reason."

"Is it okay if I stay the night, or would you prefer I leave," Serena says, picking her clothes up from the floor. She her dress up in front of her. Tries not to wince at the wrinkles. "Only I'd rather not put this back on quite yet if I don't have to."

Bernie's smiling, tapping at her mobile. "Stay," she says. "Don't get dressed." She tosses the phone on the nightstand, holds the sheet nearest Serena open. Serena sits. Bernie unwraps the towel from Serena's head, rubs it on Serena's hair a few times and then drops it to the floor. Starts massaging Serena's head, running her fingers through her hair. Kisses the side of her neck, her shoulder, the top of her head.

"Who was that, just now?" Serena asks.

She assumes the answer will be Charlotte, maybe Cam, goes stiff when Bernie says, "Just Nat, letting me know she's home and Spot--our cat, I don't know if I've mentioned her--is fine."

Serena feels betrayed. She knows she has no right--no right to Bernie, to this feeling, to the sudden roil of guilt that runs through her. The shame weighing hot and heavy on her chest. "I," she says, "I thought you two were-"

Bernie doesn't look her in the eye. "We're not," she says, "Or we're not not. I'm moving to London at the end of my current contract and she's not, so it's all a bit of a mess. This isn't cheating--you haven't, we agreed that while we might still--"

"--sleep together?" Serena offers--

"--a polite enough euphemism, but no," Bernie says. She holds herself still for a moment. Looks at Serena. She has more lines near her eyes than in Serena's memories of her, and she wants to memorize this Bernie, the one in front of her right now. "Not exactly. What I mean is--the romantic relationship's over. But we share a cat and a lease on a flat, though I'll be on assignment in South Sudan until my contract ends and I think she's going to keep the cat. It's--I didn't plan any of this."

Serena risks placing her hand on top of Bernie's. Relaxes when Bernie turns her hand palm-side up, tangles her fingers with Serena's. "London?" she finally says, unable to focus on anything else.

"London," Bernie says.

*

She texts Bernie from Los Angeles: _Should I start dying my hair again? x._

Between time zones and travel and everything else, she doesn't expect an answer immediately. Is surprised with the speed in which Bernie texts back. _no. x._ She's dropped at her hotel, trudges through checking in and having her luggage sent up and not falling asleep in the lift, leaning against the door, stood on her feet.

The tour runs smoothly. Goes by quickly. Jason and Greta and Gwen (she's suddenly so tall, and full of footie facts) fly out at holidays; Serena shows them Los Angeles, then Chicago, and now her old stomping grounds. (Far too many "this used to be"s; Harvard Square seems to be turning into a shopping mall version of itself, plastic and not-quite-right.) She Skypes with Gwen regularly; they read together, play games across the kilometers and time zones, and there's not a day goes by Serena doesn't miss hugging her, kissing her goodnight. She thinks she'll be glad to return home, even if she's starting to think that might mean leaving the hospital (it's not difficult to read between the lines when she's not even asked about the CEO opening, even on an interim basis); starts to believe that she can return to England, see Gwen regularly, and leave Holby, all at once.

("Bloody board," Fleur says, when she mentions she's been thinking about trying for CEO again, adding carefully that it will mean leaving Holby. "Bunch of blind pricks, the lot of them. I can't imagine our new fearless leader will do half as well as you would."

"Indeed," Serena says.

She hopes it comes off as sardonic, rather than bitter. Fears it's the latter when Fleur hums, mutters something under her breath. Serena's almost certain she hears Em and Donna laughing in the background.

Feels something akin to happiness, a fullness in heart at the thought of all of them. The knowledge that, whether she's in another country or another county, they'll be there for her and her for them. It's a wonder she tries to deserve.)

She starts putting out feelers, letting it be known she's open to new opportunities (ruthlessly quashes any thought of London, knows Bernie didn't mean it that way, knows that's not what or who they are anymore). Stays at Harvard longer than initially planned, but still within the remit: an extension offered and accepted, while she finishes up a paper, mentors a young woman who approaches her after a talk. Finds herself falling back on bad habits: focusing on only one part of what she wants (detailed career goals, in multiple formats), not articulating the rest (to Fleur, to Bernie, to her therapist, to herself).

(She finds herself trying to convince Jim during a Skype session. "I'm not avoiding anything," she says. He looks at her, looks down to write a note. She's staying until the end of the academic calendar, fulfilling her (assigned and chosen) obligations. "It's only another month after this."

She ruthlessly quashes any mention of Bernie. Of what she wants. Jim suggests she write it out. "Just a suggestion my arse," Serena mutters, once the call's ended. He knows her too well for that by now.)

She's wandering Cambridge, wind slicing through her nowhere near warm enough for Massachusetts spring coat. She's a phone interview with the board of a hospital outside Leeds in the morning, is being headhunted for CEO positions now she's back to focusing on that part of her career. She images her younger self, rushing across the square to meet a date, so sure she was going to change the world, or at least the NHS, for the better.

She shakes her head. No point woolgathering. She stops in at Cardullo's for a sandwich (and a bottle of Shiraz, a packet of overpriced Smarties) and walks back to her university-provided apartment to eat. To read up for her interview. Get a decent night's rest.

She emails Bernie the details.

Wakes up to a text: _good luck!!!! not that u need it x_

She doesn't get that job. Or the next one, or the next; she interviews and hones her presentations and figures out how to paper over the gaps in her cv without mentioning grief or new family members or anything else that might be taken against her as a woman. (She still isn't sure she approves of Henrik's decision to keep what she did to Jasmine out of her official file, to not make note of the seminars she attended after abusing her position with Leah--complicated though it was by Leah's own behavior, Serena's mental state, she was an F1--, but she's happy enough to take advantage of his kindness all the same. The word about Serena Campbell always was that she was too ambitious by far, ruthless, a bitch.) She buys a new suit. Prepares to move back to Holby, to the home Jason and Greta and Gwen have long taken over, to return to her real life. She has dinner with a soon-to-be-ex colleague named Zoe. Dinner leads to drinks.

She and Bernie have never discussed what happened at Cam's wedding (the bruises that lasted through her first talk in Los Angeles, longer). No mention since has been made of Nathalie or anyone else (Serena knows more about Bernie's new flat--the furniture she picked out, the linens--than she does about the current state of her love life), of what Bernie living in London might mean ( _probably nothing_ , Serena reminds herself; _possibly everything_ , she can't help hoping, and Serena's finally starting to believe that might be the more important thing--her hope, her needs). They need to talk. If she keeps wanting, keeps hoping, keeps burying everything so deep even she can barely see it, she's going to self-sabotage.

Zoe's foot teases at Serena's ankle.

Serena knows now that she can live without Bernie as her lover. She can love other people. Be happy with other people. Her life will not be less than, or any ridiculous codswallop, not coming home to Bernie every day (they had that so fleetingly anyway; their friendship and love is what lingers under the skin, keeps her safe and warm, a light on the porch in the middle of the night). But Bernie is living in London now, being ridiculous and heroic and adventurous somewhere Serena herself could imagine living. Being brilliant somewhere Serena could imagine calling home.

Serena teases back at Zoe's ankle. Thinks, _I could fall for her_ , when she talks about the necessity of a viable labor movement in minor league baseball while drinking something altogether too hoppy for Serena's tastes. Thinks how wonderful, how miraculous, it is that she still has the capability to fall in love.

It would be difficult. Zoe's life is here; her family's from the Cape, she has three young nieces in Malden. If all goes well, "knock wood," she says, "I'll get tenure when I'm up for review in two years." Serena's not sure she could manage long-distance again; thinks it was more her, than Bernie, that buggered things up last time. Thinks she doesn't have the temperament for it.

And of course there's the issue of Bernie. The existence of Bernie.

Her mind won't stop spinning, even as she kisses Zoe at the entrance to her apartment building. The taste of chapstick and beer and two different types of mint; proof they'd both been imagining this, walking back from the bar, had slipped cinnamon and peppermint into separate mouths.

"I think," she says, when Zoe asks if she wants to come up, "Not tonight."

She feels a right fool walking back to her flat. "It didn't have to mean anything," she tells herself. She hopes the other people on the street think she's on her mobile, don't call the authorities on the mad old woman talking to herself. "And were it to mean something," she asks, "What would that even mean?"

She texts Bernie from corner of her street: _term ends in 2 wks then home x_

She adjusts the collar of her coat. Presses a finger to the skin near her pendant. Picks up her pace.

*

And just like that she's home. Fleur meets her at the airport--"Jason, rightly I think, said it would be too chaotic, so he, Greta, and Gwen are waiting with a cake for you at home. Fair warning, Gwen helped bake it, so say it's lovely and delicious even if it's not."--and hugs her and smacks her in turn.

"Hospital gossip has it you're returning to AAU next week," Fleur says.

"Hospital gossip needs to learn to keep his mouth shut," Serena counters, "Or he won't know what's hit him."

"Don't be too cruel to Ric. He only let it slip because I possibly," Fleur starts, drawing out the word. Serena quirks her eyebrow. Fleur holds up her hands. "Fine, I gave him the impression I already knew your plans. Which I really ought to have done."

Serena wraps her arm around one of Fleur's, pulls her closer. "I'd hoped to have actual news to share," she says, "But alas. I think I'm still in the running for Queen Elizabeth and Trafford General, and I've heard that at least one local trust is planning on starting a search as soon as they sort their funding, but in the interim I'd rather treat patients than sit and stare at the walls."

"Speaking of London," Fleur starts--

\--"which we weren't," Serena warns--

\--"A little bird told me a certain leggy blonde trauma surgeon of our mutual acquaintance--although much more yours than mine, if you catch my drift--is currently basing herself out of that very city."

"Irrelevant," Serena says. They both know she's lying. Serena feels a swell of irrational gratitude when Fleur pretends to let her get away with it, starts sharing all the hospital gossip she's missed, the twists and turns of love and sex and medicine. (She neglects to mention that she and Donna have started seeing each other. That, Serena learns, upon walking in on the two of them in a storage closet her first day back at work.

"And here's you lecturing me about telling you things," Serena tells Fleur, later over drinks at Albie's.

"Surprise?" Donna says. Serena buys them all a bottle. Toasts to love.)

She texts Bernie between one glass and the next her first night back. Hints she may be in London for yet another round of interviews near the end of the month. Adds something about getting a drink, deletes it, asks Gwen for another slice of cake. Basks in the glow of pride on Gwen's face at the request.

She and Bernie continue to exchange texts, to discuss Serena's presentation to the trust's hiring committee over email, never quite managing to actually speak on the phone. Serena thinks she's probably to blame. Thinks she isn't quite sure what she'll say, without the time afforded by other means to think about her words, thinks she isn't quite ready to hear Bernie's voice. Isn't quite ready for the conversation they need to have.

("I--," and this sort of realization does feel like being struck by lightning, like something electric and painful coursing through her skin, "At the time, I didn't believe--I thought I was going to drag Bernie down, somehow, that she was this romantic figure destined to travel the world having adventures and saving orphans or something ridiculous, and that--there are trauma units _right bloody here_ , she's working in one now, and there are short-term volunteer assignments and so many things that never occurred to me because I never believed I was worth her. Was convinced I--"

Jim waits. Listens.

"I don't know. I did the right thing--I convinced myself it was for her, so she could do what I thought she needed to do, but I was in no fit state for a healthy relationship at the time either. Fuck, maybe I'll never be, but I want--" )

Because she's become increasingly more sure, with every text and every day, what she needs to say. It's terrifying--knowing what she wants, how much she wants it, recognizing it and feeling like she deserves it. Knowing that she can ask for it. Knowing that she has to ask, but equally knowing that she can deserve something and not receive it. That Bernie has to want it too. She rereads some of Bernie's emails, her texts from the past year; she thinks maybe Bernie does.

She texts Bernie on a Sunday night. _Before I come to London_ \--where she'll be staying in Bernie's guest room, where she'll be interviewing for a job in Bernie's city-- _we need to talk. Not text. x._ She knows Bernie's on a spate of nights, sends the text when she knows Bernie will be busy, giving them both cover for Bernie's instinctual need to take her time before answering.

Bernie finally texts her one day just as she's stepping into Jim's waiting room: _now a good time to call?_ Serena wants nothing more than to skip her appointment, walk out and pull her mobile to hear ear immediately. Instead she pauses. Makes herself text back: _can't now, therapy. 2ish?_ It's still a novelty to be able to mention a time without clarifying which timezone.

She turns off her mobile. Drops it in her bag. Knows she won't stop looking, second-guessing, catastrophizing, if it's out and on, even set to silent. Her new registrar (and when did registrars get so bloody young? He's practically an infant) knows Jim's office number, has it noted as the best way to reach her during her twice monthly appointments; it shouldn't be an issue--she's the whole day off, and Ric is working--but she reminds herself that even in the worst case scenario, a tornado touching down or an airplane crashing down the road, the hospital can reach her. She's not cutting herself off entirely. And she and Bernie need more than a flurried text exchange when Serena's feeling vulnerable.

It's an awkward session. Halting and she can't quite concentrate, doesn't get as much out of it as she should. But so goes it sometimes. She knows that now, has been doing this long enough. Jim wishes her luck on her way out, and she freezes. He must read the panic on her face, because he adds, "With the job interview."

"Right," she says, "Thank you."

She pulls her phone out of her bag before she's in the lift downstairs. Starts it powering back on as they stop on every floor on the way down, as her skin starts to feel like it's about to dance off her skeleton.

There are a string of texts from Bernie when she finally looks. _you too? :)_ and _dont take this the wrong way but im glad_ and _230s better_. Serena's heart feels like it starts beating again, like it was waiting for Bernie to respond before agreeing to pump her blood. She answers that 2:30 is fine, that she understands, that she finds herself grateful Bernie's talking to someone too. _We both rather needed it, I think_ , she types and then deletes.

She drives home. Putters around for a bit--hoovers and dusts and takes out the recycling, then treats herself to a mid-day bath. Uses her favorite bath oil, tries to relax but finds herself nervous and shaky even while submerged in warm water. She gets out, wraps herself in a towel, grabs her therapy notebook from her bedroom and gets back into the bath. Tops it off with more hot water, begins to write down her thoughts, something she really ought to have done earlier. Before it got to sitting in a bathtub, convinced Bernie is going to, what--

_\--run away to Ethiopia_

_\--announce she's marrying Nathalie_

_\--tell me she never loved me, not like that, how could I even think--_

Her mobile rings when she's scribbling down _if she says no I will be_ _okay_ _happy again._ Her toes are pruny. The water's cool. She answers anyway, surprised she'd managed to lose track of time so thoroughly, asks Bernie if she can hold on one moment while she puts on her dressing gown.

"I," she says. She looks down at her notes, touches the lines of ink. Watches her damp finger smudge one letter, then two.

"Serena?"

"Are you seeing anyone, now?" Serena says. Spits out, more like, the only way she can think to ask. Her tongue feels like it's skipping ahead of her; her thoughts start to cycle out of control. She sits on the edge of her bed. Presses a hand to her neck, breathes.

Bernie doesn't answer for what feels to Serena like a decade, more. She wishes, not for the first time, that she could see Bernie's face. Her eyes. The way she's holding herself, or leaning against something, sitting on a desk.

"No. No, I'm. You?"

"No," Serena says. Immediate, definitive. Hopeful.

"Good," Bernie says.

"I was thinking," Serena starts, and then her mind catches up to Bernie's words. "Good?"

"Good," Bernie repeats. And her tone--Serena's chest, her neck, her entire body flushes.

"Right," Serena says. "Good. We should go for dinner, when I'm in London. After I'm done with my interviews--I want to pay you proper attention."

"I know a decent Italian nearby," Bernie says. "Not so impressive a wine list as that place in Holby, oddly enough, but I think you'll find something you like. Friday evening. After you've wowed the trust and made it impossible for them to offer the CEO position to anyone else."

They talk a while longer. About Jason, Cam, Charlotte, Gwen. About the new issue of The Lancet, about funding cuts, about the hypothetical case study with which Serena's stumped the new F1s. "My therapist thinks--"

"Have you been seeing someone long?" Bernie asks.

"Years," Serena says. "Since after Greta's accident, or thereabouts. You?"

"Not quite as long," Bernie says. "Nat suggested it, back when she and I were first dating, and she was right." Serena can hear her shrug over the phone. Wants nothing more than to tell her not to underestimate herself; outside of the professional realm, they're both of them far too doubting of their abilities, their worth. She thinks she'll save that to say in person. When she can look Bernie in the eye. Hold her hands. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. You were saying, your therapist thinks?"

"I think," Serena says. Start as you mean to go on. She clears her throat, tries not to make it obvious she's stalling. Thinks, if Bernie's answering cough is any answer, that she doesn't quite succeed. "He agrees, though--he even let me think I came to the conclusion on my own--that we, that I in particular, need to be better about expressing my needs."

Bernie's laugh is still ridiculous. Still fills Serena with immeasurable joy.

*

Bernie's called in for a major trauma while Serena's train is pulling into the station, so they only see each other for the length of time it takes for Bernie to pass Serena her keys, tell her to make herself at home. Serena goes to interviews. Walks around the city. Tries not to snoop too egregiously into Bernie's belongings, her life.  

Bernie works. Probably sleeps. A used mug in the sink Friday morning Serena's only clue she's been home at all.

("So," Fleur said, when Serena told her she was spending a full week in London. That she would be staying in Bernie's flat, _in her guest room_ , for the duration. "You and the Werewolf?"

"And any number of representatives of the Lewisham and Greenwich Trust, a surgical committee, legal--"

"Kinky," Fleur said.

Serena couldn't stop herself smiling for the world. "But, yes," she said, "I think so.")

She dresses carefully that morning. Pulls on the new lingerie she bought from her favorite boutique--"just in case," she'd told Fleur, "and because it makes me feel good"--under the sharp suit she also purchased for the trip (she winces to think about her next credit card statement). Packs her laptop, tablet, presentation materials. A change of shoes should she decide to walk a bit after she's finished with her meetings. Should she find herself with time and nervous energy to shed.

Everything runs shockingly smoothly. She leaves enough time that even London traffic doesn't stop her taxi getting her to the hospital early. She impresses, is all-but-offered the position (there's still time for it to fall apart, of course, contracts and negotiations and everything under the sun), walks out into the grey afternoon with trainers on her feet and the urge to wander a bit. She texts Fleur a thumbs up emoji. Starts to text Bernie, changes her mind; she wants to tell her in person.

Bernie's leaning against the kitchen sink when Serena finally gets back to her flat. Mug in one hand and a half-eaten banana in the other, dressed in scrub bottoms and a white vest top. She isn't wearing a bra. Her hair is damp.

"You're back early," she says. She glances at the microwave clock, adds, "Wait, is that the time?"

Serena drops her bag where she stands. Kicks off her ridiculous looking trainers (well-worn and comfortable, but boxy and not particularly attractive), wishes she'd thought to switch back into her heels in the lift, longs for the bit of extra height and confidence they'd offer. Joins Bernie in the kitchen in her stocking feet. Bernie drops her banana peel in the bin, rinses out her mug in the sink. 

"I'm back late," Serena confirms. "I went wandering for a bit, lost track of time myself." She can't stop looking at Bernie. Finally decides to make a show of it, a slow steady gaze starting at her pale pink toenails, pausing meaningfully at legs, hips, breasts, mouth. "We're going to miss our reservation."

"I can go," Bernie says, and, "change" only after Serena takes another step closer. And another.

"I want you."

"I like your suit."

Voices tripping over one another, tangling into giggles. Serena snorts, laughs, and thrills at the sound of Bernie's ridiculous full-voiced honk. The tension in the air seems to somehow dissipate and intensify at the same time, nerves shifting into something else entirely.

She thinks about flirting, _oh this old thing_ , but her suit is clearly new and tailored and dangerous, and she feels almost as deadly. Bernie's eyes are all pupil as she stares back at Serena, and she keeps licking her lips. Serena wants to lick them for her; wants to pull Bernie's head down by her hair, to kiss her until they neither of them can remain upright. "I like your top," she says. Can't resist that much teasing. "I like you. I want you. I want you to know that I like and want you, that I want us."

Bernie's mouth opens in a silent _oh_ , and Serena wants to kiss her in gratitude. Reaches out and takes Bernie's hand between her own, lifts it and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Tangles their fingers together and holds on, lets herself process.

Because Bernie understands. She understands that Serena isn't only flirting. Isn't only trying to drag Bernie into bed. She's--"I love you," Serena blurts out, unable to stop now she's started, "I think we both deserve an honest start to this, if we're going to try--"

"I want you too," Bernie says. Her thumb thumps against Serena's, comforting and somewhat more. Serena's heart thumps along with it, lurches in her chest like she's sat in Bernie's ridiculous car, speeding along the bloody Autobahn at 400 kilometers per hour. "And a lack of love was never our problem, was it?"

"No." Serena's voice feels wet, somehow, rusty. She can't stop herself from stretching up, pressing a quick kiss to Bernie's mouth. Done practically before it started, their hands twisted awkwardly between their bodies. "No, never that."

"Right." Bernie nods. "As much as it pains me to say this--and it truly, truly does--I think I ought to go get dressed, and we can go out to dinner. Maybe not the Italian"--they both turn to look at the clock; Serena hadn't realized so much time had passed, it feels like none at all--"right, _definitely_ not the Italian, but we'll find somewhere that looks nice."

"I could kill a kebab right now," Serena offers. She's suddenly starving. Can't remember when last she ate.

Bernie grins. "I know just the place. We'll get a takeaway and go eat in the park. Talk a bit."

"Talk a lot, I think," Serena says. She wants to do things right this time; knows they need to talk things out--she hasn't even mentioned the increasing likelihood she'll be moving to London in the coming months, let alone how they'll make things work while she's in Holby--no matter how loudly her body is screaming to drag Bernie to bed by the hair, to tie her up and have her way with her. "We have time for all the rest."

"Forever, even," Bernie says.

"Forever sounds good." She unclasps their fingers, presses her palm to Bernie's cheek. Kisses her, long and deep, her attempt to demonstrate in action as well as words: a promise, an answer, their friendship and love and past and future all tied together. Her fingers slide up the bottom of Bernie's vest top, the feel of her skin warm and irresistible. A twist of something dirty with her tongue, and she pulls back. "Sorry," she says, a deliberate echo of the past. Bernie's eyes crinkle with the smile she's clearly trying to reign in.

Serena winks. Brushes her mouth against Bernie's cheek. She steps back. Starts toward the guest bedroom, trying to think what she has packed that would be suitable for a picnic in the park, when Bernie catches her from behind. Presses a kiss to her hairline and turns Serena in her arms. "You're ridiculous, Serena Wendy Campbell, you do know that?"

Serena wraps her arms around Bernie's neck. Leans in for one more kiss, then veers from Bernie's mouth to whisper at her ear. "You have no idea. Now, go, get dressed, before I say sod it to your perfectly mature plan and--"

Bernie presses her mouth to Serena's, stopping her from saying anything more. "Right, going," she says, before turning crisply. Walking toward her own bedroom (and, oh, Serena does enjoy watching her arse in scrubs; always has, and at this point, likely always will).

"After all," Serena adds, unable as always to let someone else have the last word, "You did promise we'd celebrate my triumph with the trust."


End file.
